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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950049">there but for the grace of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa'>medoroa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Barebacking, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:29:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a mission in the Russian SFSR, Bond meets a handsome spy with green eyes and blond hair.</p><p>Or: What if Alec was never sent to Britain as a child?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Bond/Alec Trevelyan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there but for the grace of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>One possible AU in the lives of James and Alec. I plan to add a few more AU scenarios as I write them, but this stands alone.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
"Homosexuality is the terminal manifestation of Western capitalist decadence, you know," the man said, matter of fact, as he pulled a cigarette from the leather case and put it between his thin lips. His blond hair fell into his face and his pale green eyes were lidded as he turned the case over in his long, elegant fingers, studying it as one might a curious biological specimen; if this were 1885 and someone had introduced the man to him as a count or a duke, Bond would easily have been convinced.
</p><p>
Bond laughed and reached for his lighter on the bedside chest. "You seem to be enjoying it quite well, all things considered," he said, holding it up to the man's face and flicking its lid open, lighting it. The man leaned in, his pale cheeks sinking slightly as he took a drag of the cigarette, reminding Bond of something else the man had been sucking on just half an hour ago.
</p><p>
As though perfectly aware of every thought crossing Bond's mind, the man held the lit cigarette between his first two fingers and licked his bottom lip. His nails were clipped short and filed smooth, while his lips were soft and his complexion rosy. "Well, I never said I disliked decadence, did I," he said, and Bond believed him.
</p><p>
They had been attempting to kill each other for the past two weeks. Bond had alternately played cat and mouse; on some days he had walked briskly down a crowded Moscow street, hand on the gun under his coat, in pursuit of a dark figure he was sure had stalked him from the moment he left his hotel, and on some nights he had dodged rifle bullets as he ran down the platform of a desolate railway station, cursing under his breath as one bullet grazed the skin of his nape.
</p><p>
When they had found themselves in a deadlock, their bodies tangled on the carpet of Bond's hotel room as they each blocked the other's joints, they had decided to call a truce and fuck instead. Bond's cock had begun to stiffen as it rubbed against firm muscles through layers of clothing, and he felt similarly hard flesh press against his hipbone, so it had seemed like the most logical choice.
</p><p>
"You should come with me, then," Bond said casually, making himself comfortable on a pillow and looking up at the man sitting next to him on the narrow mattress. "We are renowned for our vice of decadence throughout the world."
</p><p>
The man was all long limbs and nearly hairless skin, naked save for the small patch of the sheets covering one thigh and flaccid cock, body relaxed and unashamedly on display in a manner that betrayed his sense of absolute self-confidence. Bond recalled how that body had yielded and opened under him, how the man had muttered Russian curses as Bond licked the faint line of a scar up his inner thigh, how his reddened lips had twisted into a satisfied smile when Bond invaded his tight hole, his own saliva the only facilitator. Bond knew the man's insides were slick with come, but he didn't seem in a hurry to clean himself off. Bond's cock stirred at the thought.
</p><p>
"I'm afraid I can't do that," the man said, blowing a line of smoke at Bond as his eyebrows furrowed in mock regret. His tone of voice was dry and his accent unmistakably English as he spoke, and Bond dimly wondered where the man had learned to pass so perfectly for a toff. "As delightfully firm as your prick is, you are British, and the British are the only people I despise more than Stalin. And since Stalin is dead — тем лучше — that has conveniently bumped you up to take the top spot."
</p><p>
"I'm honored."
</p><p>
"As you should be." The man regarded Bond in silence for a moment before finally smiling. The icy green eyes melted in what Bond might even have mistaken for fondness as the man took another deep drag of the cigarette. "I reserve such strong emotions for only very few people."
</p><p>
"In other words, you are an unfeeling bastard," Bond said, watching in delight as the man's face softened into a laugh. "Exactly my type."
</p><p>
Still laughing, the man leaned over Bond to stub out the cigarette in the half-full ashtray on the chest. Bond gazed at the pert nipples and reached up to brush a thumb against one, imagining how it might taste and feel if he nibbled and licked at it, how long it might take for the man's cock to rise and demand attention. He imagined not long at all.
</p><p>
But instead, the man laid back down on his stomach, flaunting the curved line of his spine leading down to firm cheeks, thighs spread a few inches to show a hint of white smudges of come. "Why don't you have another go, while I'm still wet," he said, resting his head on his crossed arms and tilting his hips up. "Slower this time. Make me remember the shape of your cock."
</p><p>
Bond mounted him, in a way he would think back on as animalistic. True to his words, the man squeezed down on his cock and milked it, so tight he probably would remember the curve of Bond's shaft and the shape of Bond's dickhead spreading him open for weeks to come. Bond buried himself deep in the hot, welcoming flesh and came, second load joining the first, fingers digging into the firm muscles of the arse spread wide under him — and the man let out the most delicious long keening noise, coming untouched in long streaks against the sheets. 
</p><p>
"At least tell me your name, so I will know who finally put a bullet between my eyes," Bond said afterwards, lying on his side and watching through heavy eyelids as the man picked up pieces of clothing from the floor. A shirt was thrown his way, then a pair of boxers, before the man finally found his own underwear and began to dress. "Not to mention, would be a shame to not put a name to that plump arse of yours."
</p><p>
The man chuckled and slipped into a white shirt. "And what will you give me in return?"
</p><p>
Bond pretended to consider it. "Aside from the memory of my long, hard cock that made you come harder than any man before?"
</p><p>
The man buttoned up his slacks and sent him a sideways glance that spoke clearer than words. Bond chuckled to himself; it was a look he knew well, one usually accompanied by an exasperated <i>Really, Double-Oh-Seven?</i> But instead the man said, "Aside from the memory of the largest organ you're in possession of, namely your ego."
</p><p>
"Oh honey, you know me so well already," Bond deadpanned, and grabbed the cigarette case from the bedside chest and threw it at the man, who caught it easily in one hand. He seemed to consider the trade for a few moments, opening and closing the case before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket with a shrug, as if to say <i>Good enough.</i> He then finished dressing, standing before Bond as he had first seen him, a steel cold Soviet agent with slicked back blond hair, the PSS subtly ruining the line of his dark suit.
</p><p>
"My name is Alexei," the man said, opening the door. "But when I infiltrated that dusty old college of yours to acquire this ridiculous accent, they called me Alec."
</p><p>
"Alec," Bond mouthed, letting the syllables dance on his tongue.
</p><p>
Alec smiled at the sound of his own name. "До свидания," he said, and exited the room, leaving behind only a promise as sweet and as deadly as any a lover had ever given Bond — <i>"Until we meet again."</i>
</p><p>
"Can hardly wait," he whispered to the empty room.
</p>
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